below for sight, the moulding and gurgoyle impeded her agonized view, but she saw the child’s look of joyful relief, she heard the steady voice, ‘Wait, don’t let go yet. There,’ and after a few more sounds, came up a shout, ‘all right!’ Infinitely relieved, she had to give her whole attention to poor Gertrude, who, overset by the accident, giddy with the attempt to look over, horrified by the danger, confused and distressed by the hair that came wildly flapping about her head and face, and by the puffs of wind at her hoop, had sunk down in the centre of the little leaden square, clinging with all her might to the staff of the weathercock, and feeling as if the whole tower were rocking with her, absolutely seeing the battlements dance. How was she ever to be safely got down the rickety ladder leading to the crumbling stone stair? Ethel knelt by her, twisted up the fluttering hair, bade her shut her eyes and compose her thoughts, and then called over the battlements to Aubrey, who, confused by the shock, continued to emerge at wrong doors and lose himself on the roofs, and was like one in a bad dream, nearly as much dizzied as his sister, to whose help he came the more readily, as the way up was the only one plain before him.
The detention would have been more dreadful to Ethel had she known all that was passing below, and that when the little boy, at Leonard’s sign, lowered himself towards the out-reaching arms of the young man, who was steadying himself against the wall of the tower, it was with a look of great pain, and leaving a trail of blood behind him. When, at length, he stood at the angle, Leonard calmly said, ‘Now go before me, round that corner, in at the door. Hold by the wall, I’ll hold your shoulder.’ The boy implicitly obeyed, the notion of giddiness never seemed to occur to him, and both safely came to the little door, on the threshold of which Leonard sat down, and lifting him on his knee, asked where he was hurt? ‘My leg,’ said Dickie, ‘the glass was running in all the time, and I could not move; but it does not hurt so much now.’
Perhaps not; but a large piece of glass had broken into the slender little calf, and Leonard steadied himself to withdraw it, as, happily, the fragment was large enough to give a hold for his hand. The sensible little fellow, without a word, held up the limb across Leonard’s knee, and threw an arm round his neck, to hold himself still, just saying, ‘Thank you,’ when it was over.
‘Did it hurt much, Dickie?’
‘Not very much,’ he answered; ‘but how it bleeds! Where’s Aunt Ethel?’
‘On the tower. She will come in a moment,’ said Leonard, startled by the exceeding flow of blood, and binding the gash round with his handkerchief. ‘Now, I’ll carry you down.’
The boy did not speak all the weary winding way down the dark stairs; but Leonard heard gasps of oppression, and felt the head lean on his shoulder; moreover, a touch convinced him that the handkerchief was soaking, nay dripping, and when he issued at length into the free air of the church, the face was deadly white. No one was near, and Leonard laid him on a bench. He was still conscious, and looked up with languid eyes. ‘Mayn’t I go home?’ he said, faintly; ‘Aunt Ethel!’
‘Let me try to stop this bleeding first,’ said Leonard. ‘My dear little man, if you will only be quiet, I think I can.’
Leonard took the handkerchief from his throat, and wound it to its tightest just above the hurt, Dickie remonstrating for a moment with, ‘That’s not the place. It is too tight.’
‘It will cut off the blood from coming,’ said Leonard; and in the same understanding way, the child submitted, feebly asking, ‘Shall I bleed to death? Mamma will be so sorry!’
‘I trust—I hope not,’ said Leonard; he durst utter no encouragement, for the life-blood continued to pour forth unchecked, and the next murmur was, ‘I’m so sick. I can’t say my prayers. Papa! Mamma!’ Already, however, Leonard had torn down a holly bough, and twisted off (he would have given worlds for a knife) a short stout stick, which he thrust into one of the folds of the ligature, and pulled it much tighter, so that his answer was, ‘Thank God, Dickie, that will do! the bleeding has stopped. You must not mind if it hurts for a little while.’
An ejaculation of ‘Poor little dear,’ here made him aware of the presence of the sexton’s wife; but in reply to her offer to carry him in to Mrs. Cheviot’s, Dickie faintly answered, ‘Please let me go home;’ and Leonard, ‘Yes, I will take him home. Tell Miss May it is a cut from the glass, I am taking him to have it dressed, and will bring him home. Now, my dear little patient fellow, can you put your arms round my neck?’
Sensible, according to both meanings of the word, Dickie clasped his friend’s neck, and laid his head on his shoulder, not speaking again till he found Leonard was not turning towards the High Street, when he said, ‘That is not the way home.’
‘No, Dickie, but we must get your leg bound up directly, and the hospital is the only place where we can be sure of finding any one to do it. I will take you home directly afterwards.’
‘Thank you,’ said the courteous little gentleman; and in a few minutes more Leonard had rung the bell, and begged the house surgeon would come at once to Dr. May’s grandson. A few drops of stimulant much revived Dickie, and he showed perfect trust and composure, only holding Leonard’s hands, and now and then begging to know what they were doing, while he was turned over on his face for the dressing of the wound, bearing all without a sound, except an occasional sobbing gasp, accompanied by a squeeze of Leonard’s finger. Just as this business had been completed, the surgeon exclaimed, ‘There’s Dr. May’s step,’ and Dickie at once sat up, as his grandfather hurried in, nearly as pale as the boy himself. ‘O, grandpapa, never mind, it is almost well now; and has Aunt Daisy got her hat?’
‘What is it, my dear? what have you been doing?’ said the Doctor, looking in amazement from the boy to Leonard, who was covered with blood. ‘They told me you had fallen off the Minster tower!’
‘Yes I did,’ said Dickie; ‘I reached after Aunt Daisy’s hat, but I fell on the roof, and I was sliding, sliding down to the wall, but there was a window, and the glass broke and cut me, but I got my feet against the bottom of it, and held on by the iron bar, till Leonard came and took me down;’ and he lay back on the pillow, quiet and exhausted, but bright-eyed and attentive as ever, listening to Leonard’s equally brief version of the adventure.
‘Didn’t he save my life, grandpapa?’ said the boy, at the close.
‘Twice over, you may say,’ added the surgeon, and his words as to the nature of the injury manifested that all had depended on the immediate stoppage of the haemorrhage. With so young a child, delay from indecision or want of resource would probably have been fatal.
‘There would have been no doing anything, if this little man had not been so good and sensible,’ said Leonard, leaning over him.
‘And I did not cry. You will tell papa I did not cry,’ said Dickie, eagerly, but only half gratified by such girlish treatment as that agitated kiss of his grandfather, after being a little bit of a hero; but then Dickie’s wondering eyes really beheld such another kiss bestowed over his head upon Leonard, and quite thought there were tears on grandpapa’s cheeks. Perhaps old gentlemen could do what was childish in little boys.
Dickie was to be transported home. He wished to be carried by Leonard, but the brougham was at the door, and he had to content himself with being laid on the seat, with his friend to watch over him, the Doctor pointing out
